


There are some things written in the stars

by stealing-jasons-job (changingthefairy_tale)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based on a TV show, Bellarke, But also, Chopped: The 100 Fanfic Challenge, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Forehead Touching, Kiss to keep a cover, Reunion, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel, Timeless AU, With some Clurphy too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changingthefairy_tale/pseuds/stealing-jasons-job
Summary: Dear Bell,I know you have a million questions. When I planned to come see you in Sau Paulo, I knew I wouldn’t have much time, and there was just too much I wanted to say. But also so much I knew I couldn’t. My only hope is that this journal answers some of your questions, and by some miracle saves your life.My name is Clarke Griffin, a historian. We’ve never met before today, in your time at least. In 2019, I would be just starting my professorship at Arkadia University back in the states. That’s honestly the only reason Murphy didn’t fight me on seeing you — no chance that I’d cross paths with myself. He wouldn’t have been able to stop me, mind you. But he’s definitely the better pilot, so I’m glad he was on board.I’m getting away from myself. It’s hard to remember a time when you didn’t just instinctively know what I was thinking. It’s felt a little like you’ve just known me my whole life, the way we’ve always been in sync. Let me start from the beginning, just rip the bandaid off…___Or the "Timeless" AU you never knew you needed. Submitted as part of the Chopped Challenge: Round 2.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin/John Murphy
Comments: 29
Kudos: 53
Collections: Chopped 3.0 Round 2





	1. Prologue

**Sao Paulo, Brazil, July 2019**

Bellamy lifted his hand to signal the bartender for another drink. He’d had too much, this he knew, but the amber liquid was the only way he could numb the pain pulling at every cell in his body. 

They’d killed his sister, and then they’d blamed him for it. The country that he spent years serving, the government he’d spent years protecting, turned on him the second it was convenient to the agendas of those at the top. 

The image of her body limp in his arms just wouldn’t disappear. Twenty-two years of Octavia’s contagious laugh and fearless smile, and it was last goddamn memory of his hands stained in her blood, her eyes void of life that was ever-present when he closed his own. 

He hated them. He hated himself. 

He needed another drink. 

Bellamy was another two whiskeys down when someone approached him. At first, he didn’t even acknowledge their presence, barely registering the movement out of the corner of his eye. But then a soft voice said his name. 

“Bellamy?” He turned at the sound. A young woman stood five feet away. She was strikingly beautiful, someone the old Bellamy would have noticed the second she walked in. But it was the look in her eyes, the sound in her voice that made him really look at her now. 

God, the way she looked at him. Tentative, head tilted and eyebrows just slightly furrowed in concern. As if she cared about him, as if he were worth caring about. 

“Do I know you?” he croaked out, his words a little slurred from the alcohol. At that, she straightened slightly and let out a breath. 

“You don’t… but one day, you will.” She wasn’t making any sense, but Bellamy was drunk enough not to question it. “I know you, though.” 

That got his attention. On instinct, he started to get up from the bar. They’d found him. Apparently there was nowhere he could run where they wouldn’t track him down. 

She reached out immediately, her hand grabbing his. “No, I don’t work for the people who killed your sister. I’m a friend.” 

“I don’t know what they told you, but I’m innocent,” he tried to pull his hand away — her skin on his was sending warmth through his hand and arm. He didn’t like the sensation, or more accurately he didn’t like how much it felt like their hands belonged together. 

But her hand was a vice grip on his own, deceptively strong. She pulled him back down onto the barstool, motioning for the bartender. 

“Whiskey neat for me, water for him.” 

“Hey, I’m not done—” Bellamy tried arguing. 

“I need you to sober up for this conversation, okay?” He opened his mouth to tell her where she could shove her mothering, but then she continued. “I need your help, Bell.” 

No one had ever called him that except Octavia. Normally, he’d be pissed that anyone would dare use that name, especially someone who he doesn’t know. But it sounded right coming off her lips, the way she said it like a habit… like she’s called him that every day for their whole lives. 

She was right; he needed to get sober. He couldn’t think straight around her like this. Begrudgingly, he settled back into his seat and starting sipping on the water placed in front of him. Once he was compliant, she let go. Bellamy tried not to think about the lack of warmth from where her hand had been. 

“So… you know me,” he started tentatively. 

“Yes,” she nodded slowly, nursing her whiskey. “I’ve known you for years at this point. I know about your childhood and raising Octavia. I know about the NSA and how the U.S. government betrayed you. I know you tell people you drink coffee black, but you actually prefer it with a teaspoon of sugar that you’ll dump in when you think no one is watching.” 

His eyes cut sideways to look at her. How could she have known how he takes his coffee? There was a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth and she was focused on the drink in her hands rather than him — as if she were thinking about a fond memory. 

She really did know him, didn’t she? How was this possible? Was there a file on him somewhere? Who could have told her that… 

“I know it sounds crazy,” she says, cutting off his spiral. “But soon enough, you’ll know me, too.” 

He was starting to come out of his previously inebriated state, a combination of the water and company, and he took his first real look at the woman sitting next to him.

Her blonde hair is cut short, waves chopped off just before they reach her shoulders. There was also a sliver of pink he could see peeking out from the underside. Her features were delicate, but her eyes were as fierce as ocean waves crashing on the shore. They reminded him of the fire he always saw in Octavia’s, though an ice blue instead of O’s deep brown. 

But there was something about her, something he couldn’t place. Bellamy never believed in fate, or soulmates. Yet he couldn’t deny he was inextricably drawn to her as if his body remembered a life that his mind couldn’t. 

She pulled out a small journal from the pocket of her black leather jacket. It was only slightly larger than her hand and looked well-worn. There was an infinity sign on the faded navy blue cover. 

“This will tell you everything you need to know. I don’t have much time, not enough to explain or to make you understand. You’ll have to trust me,” she said, more hurried as she checked the cracked watch on her wrist and downed the rest of her drink. 

He had so many questions to ask, so many things he needed to know. But she stood then, grabbing his hand once more to give him the journal. He took it wordlessly, his brows drawn together in confusion. 

“Wait, where are you going?” he asked, but she just gave him a sad smile. She reached out a hand to cup his cheek, leaning her forehead against his. He closed his eyes, breathing in her nearness. His hand covered her own on instinct. 

After what felt like a lifetime and yet not nearly long enough, she pulled back. She blinked a few times, her eyes glassy. 

“I hope beyond anything that you live a happy life, Bell. A long, happy life. You more than anyone in the world deserves it.” He felt the ghost of her lips graze his cheek, and then she was walking away. 

“Wait!” he called out before she could get far. “You didn’t even tell me your name.” 

“Clarke,” she said after a beat. “Everything is in the journal. Just promise you’ll read it.” 

Before he could respond, she was gone — disappeared from his life as quickly as she’d walked into it. 

He sat at the bar for a long time, just replaying the interaction over and over again in his head. Clarke. He was positive he’d never seen her before in his life — he wouldn’t have forgotten her face in a million years. 

It wasn’t until he’d paid his tab and made his way back to the rundown flat he was renting for the week, that he finally cracked open the journal. He flipped through the pages, skimming the entries without really reading. Many pages were filled with a messy scrawl, but every few pages would be a diagram or sketch. 

As he was flipping through, his eyes caught on a familiar face and set of curls — his own. His fingers ghosted over the page, not wanting to smear any lines. It was undeniably him — his freckles, the dip in his chin, the small scar above his lip from his first fight as a teenager. The dark curls drawn were longer and more unruly in the sketch, and he looked a few years older. 

_I could pick your face out of a crowd of a thousand_ , what seemed to be her handwriting scrawled below the picture. 

Bellamy flipped back to the beginning, settling into the ratty couch to read. There was a folded piece of paper taped to the inside cover, obviously added more recently. 

_Dear Bell,_

_I know you have a million questions. When I planned to come see you in Sau Paulo, I knew I wouldn’t have much time, and there was just too much I wanted to say. But also so much I knew I couldn’t. My only hope is that this journal answers some of your questions, and by some miracle saves your life._

_My name is Clarke Griffin, a historian. We’ve never met before today, in your time at least. In 2019, I would be just starting my professorship at Arkadia University back in the states. That’s honestly the only reason Murphy didn’t fight me on seeing you — no chance that I’d cross paths with myself. He wouldn’t have been able to stop me, mind you. But he’s definitely the better pilot, so I’m glad he was on board._

_I’m getting away from myself. It’s hard to remember a time when you didn’t just instinctively know what I was thinking. It’s felt a little like you’ve just known me my whole life, the way we’ve always been in sync. Let me start from the beginning, just rip the bandaid off…_

_Time travel is real, and you met a future version of the Clarke that’s currently setting up her lesson plans for her first semester as a history professor. Yeah, I know you’re a history nerd, too. It’s one of the reasons we clicked so well when we first met. It’s a lot to take in, but I’m telling the truth. I had Jaha put a better explanation of how it’s possible later in the journal, so hopefully, that will help._

_Okay, second bandaid. Octavia was murdered by an organization called Second Dawn. It’s a faction of people dedicated to the “betterment of humanity.” They have operatives around the world, at every level of almost every government. Hell, even my mother was an operative. The journal will explain more, but just know that they are dangerous and that there was_ _nothing_ _you could have done to prevent what happened to Octavia. I know you blame yourself for that, but you can’t. That’s no way to live your life, Bellamy._

_And that’s why I’m doing all of this —_ _because I want you to live._

_Third bandaid, and this is the big one. In my timeline, we bring down Second Dawn… together. We’re partners, best friends… you’re my everything, Bellamy. It takes years, and a lot of blotched plans that you’ll read all about later in this journal. The team eventually manages to eradicate them. But the cost of bringing them down is your life. And I know what you’re thinking. “It’s worth the sacrifice.” But I’m telling you that it’s not, at least not to me._

_I have to believe that there’s another way. Another way to stop Second Dawn and my mother without getting you hurt in the crosshairs. The only thing is that you only get one shot at a redo — the human body can only tolerate being in the same timeline as its earlier self for so long before it starts going into organ failure, especially if you’re in the same vicinity as yourself. Something about your brain’s biometric code sensing a duplicate and trying to shut down? I’m fuzzy on the details, to be honest._

_The important part is that it means I can’t go back to save you, at least not the way I want to. My only hope is that I can prevent you from ever meeting me in the first place._

_Don’t get on that plane, Bellamy. Don’t try to hunt down the people who killed your sister. Don’t storm into that art history class and demand answers from the young, blonde professor who happens to be the daughter of the man responsible for Octavia’s death._

_Please, please, please… forget about me. Live a full life, a happy life. One where you make a home for yourself in Greece like you always dreamed, where you go back to school to become a history teacher. One where you meet a pretty girl while getting coffee one morning and fall head over heels in love._

_Bellamy, I’m begging you. If you won’t do this for yourself, please do it for me. I cannot live in a world where you don’t. There are a lot of terrible things I’ve done in my life, some of them justified and some of them not. But by far the worst thing I could do is let you walk into my life knowing I become the reason yours ends._

_Let yourself grieve, and then let yourself live._

_-Clarke_


	2. Stop calling me ma'am

**Arkadia, USA, July 2020**

“The thing you have to understand is that history is almost always written by the victors, by the ones in power. History likes to make things sound romantic or formulaic, a set of dates next to a sentence describing the ‘what.’ But the _real_ history is in the ‘why,’ in the ‘how does this all connect?’” 

Clarke stood at the lectern, looking out at her first-year students. It was her favorite class — Intro to Art History 101. 

“Take Michelangelo, for example,” she clicked to the next slide, a picture of The Last Judgement, zoomed in to a particular man’s portrait in hell. “He’s one of the most prolific artists of all time, and I bet none of you could tell me anything about him other than potentially a list of works he’s completed. 

“This depiction in the Sistine Chapel is of Cesena, the Papal Minister of Ceremonies. The fact that Michaelangelo painted this is immaterial. It gives no context. But _why_ is he painted in Hell, with ears of an ass and a snake biting his off dick? Long story short, Cesena pissed of Mikey by insulting his work. And because there was already tension between Michaelangelo and the Pope, he decided to paint the papal minister as Minos, King of the Dead. 

“Cesena actually raged about this to the Pope, who refused to retaliate after having to deal with Michelangelo so often in recent years. And so that portrait remains part of the Sistine Chapel to this day. Its existence is of limited importance, but why it exists provides commentary about the relationship between the Church and prominent artists and free thinkers of that time — something we continue to see mirrored in society today. 

“My point is,” Clarke turned off the PowerPointt, lights coming back up in the lecture hall. “Unlike art, history is not in the eye of the beholder — instead it all depends on who tells the story. Use that to better analyze the past as you go through your classes at Arkadia U and your lives beyond. You can’t change history, but you can learn to wield it to change the future.” 

She dismissed her class, answering a few questions from lingering students. As she was packing up her things to leave, a woman who’d been watching from the back row approached. 

“Clarke Griffin, my name is Indra Porter,” she said with no preamble, reaching a hand across the space between them. 

“Um, hi. What can I do for you Ms. Porter?” 

“Call me Indra. I work for the NSA,” she held out a badge for Clarke. “You’ve been recruited for a special assignment, a matter of immediate national security. I’ll have a car pick you up from your house in the morning at 700 hours to take you to a secure location to be briefed with the team.” 

National security? Briefed with the team? Clarke was an art history professor at a small university, not anyone the NSA should have on their radar for some special mission. There had to be some mistake. 

Indra didn’t wait for a response before turning to leave. 

“Excuse me, Indra? I’m a professor… what does the NSA need from me?” Clarke called out to Indra halfway up the stairs to the door. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning!” was her only response before disappearing out the door. 

Clarke was still distracted from that encounter when she got home, to the point she didn’t even realize Wells was over until he stopped her with both hands on her shoulders as she made her way into the kitchen. 

“Earth to Clarke?” he said, leaning down to look in her eyes. “Bad day at work? God, I can’t imagine dealing with college kids all day.” 

She chuckled as he let her go, turning back to something on the stove. “Not bad, just… odd.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

She tells Wells about what happened. He listens as he stirs what smells like his dad’s famous spaghetti sauce. 

Her and Wells had been best friends since before she could even remember. They jokingly called each other platonic life partners. He knew her better than she knew herself, and so he waited for her to get her thoughts out there before asking his own questions. 

“Okay,” he started once she was done, setting down the stirring spoon. “Do you trust that Indra is who she says she is?” 

Clarke thought about it for a minute. “Yes. I don’t see why she’d lie about it, and she showed me her very official-looking badge. My larger concern is why the NSA would want me on some team to handle a national security matter.” 

“Maybe someone stole the Mona Lisa because they think a treasure map is on the back,” Wells grinned, wriggling his eyebrows. Clarke threw a napkin across the counter at him. 

“I’m being serious, you jackass,” she laughed. “And that was the Declaration of Independence, not the Mona Lisa.” That was one of the things she loved most about Wells. No matter what was going on in her life, he could always make her laugh. He was her rock in a lot of ways, someone she couldn’t imagine her life without. 

Wells stuck his tongue out at her, and she responded in kind. “Go check on Abby. Dinner’s almost ready.” 

Clarke made her way back to her mom’s room, where Abby was resting quietly. The machines next to the bed are beeping, a steady hum always filling the room. She was asleep more than she was awake most days, the pain medications doing their best to keep her comfortable. 

The final stages of lung cancer were brutal, and they’d made the switch to palliative care almost a month ago. The oncologists had warned Clarke that there were likely going to be more bad days than good from here on out, and no one thought she would make it three months. 

It had been a long road of fighting for Abby, rounds of chemo and surgeries followed by periods of remission. But it always came back. And since Abby’s lung cancer was caused by her pack-a-day habit — the same vice that took Well’s mother and Abby’s best friend a few years back — UNOS wouldn’t put Abby at the top of the donor list for new lungs. 

With Wells’s help, Clarke had come to terms with it. She would never be ready to say goodbye to her mother, but at what point was it better to let her go rather than hold on while her mom suffered? 

“Hey mom,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss her mother’s forehead. She moved around the room, straightening things and adjusting Abby’s blankets. Once satisfied with how things were, Clarke settled into the oversized chair next to the bed with one of her journals she kept on the bedside table. 

Her mother had always encouraged journaling her thoughts. The pages of her unlined journals were a chaotic mess of sketches, notes, ideas and actual journal entries. But the chaos on the page meant less chaos in her brain, so she continued to put pen to paper. 

Today, she scribbled an actual journal entry, just putting her thoughts down about the visit from Indra. She would go the next morning and see what project they could possibly want her help with — in part because she didn’t believe Indra would give her much choice in the matter, but mostly because she was too nosy for her own good. 

Eventually, Wells knocked on the door, and she went to eat dinner with him. They talked about their lives — Wells was looking to make partner at his firm and recently started dating this man named Roan who he thought could potentially be the one — drank a couple of glasses of wine, and curled up on the couch together to watch the newest episode of this CW show called The 100 they’d both recently become obsessed with. 

It was a quiet night in with her best friends — one of the last of those kinds of nights she would have in a long time. 

*** 

The ride Indra sent was prompt the next morning, not that Clarke had expected anything else. With a to-go cup of coffee and a slice of toast hanging out of her mouth, Clarke climbed into the back seat. It was a quiet ride from her place all the way into the city, where they pulled up to the gate at Jaha Industries. 

This was Wells’s father’s company. He and Wells weren’t exactly on the best of terms right now, Thelonius still being upset that Wells declined the offer to work for the family business. But Wells wanted to mark his own path out from under his father’s shadow. Clarke understood completely, but Thelonius was a different story. 

Even with their estrangement, surely Thelonius would have told Wells if he was the one who had recruited her for this project. And why would the NSA be involved in one of his tech projects? 

“What are we doing at Jaha Industries?” she asked as they escorted her out of the black SUV, unable to quell her curiosity. The men ushered her inside without commentary. 

She went through a series of security measures, including a pat-down she didn’t think was entirely necessary. 

“All electronic devices in the bin, Miss Griffin,” one man instructed her, his voice monotonous. How he knew her name, she wasn’t sure. 

“What is this, TSA?” she asked half-jokingly, but no one reacted. “Tough crowd,” she mumbled under her breath, depositing her phone into the gray box held out to her. 

Once further inside the building, she was led down a hallway to a windowless room that looked like someone’s office. They closed the door behind her, leaving her alone. Or, well, mostly alone. 

Slumped in one of the chairs across the room was a man who looked to be about her age. He had sharp features, scruff lining his jaw and hair that was mused on top and shorter on the sides. His eyes were closed, arms crossed over his chest. Clarke willed herself to ignore the fact that he was her type to a T, instead sitting in the chair across from him. 

After a few moments of silence, she leaned forward a little. “Are you asleep?” she whispered. 

“No, ma’am,” he responded, voice gruff and eyes still closed. She nodded and mouthed an _okay then_ before settling back in her own seat. 

But after another few seconds, she couldn’t help but ask, “Do you know why we’re here?” 

“No idea, ma’am.” He sounded bored, a hint of agitation in his voice. She narrowed her eyes at him. 

“You know, we’re pretty much the same age, so you can just stop calling me ma’am.” 

At that, he finally opened his eyes, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk. She was about to say something else, but the door opened. 

“Clarke, John, good to see you both. Follow me, and we’ll brief you on the situation with the team.” 

They both wordlessly followed her out to a massive hangar-looking space filled with tech equipment. _What on earth was she doing there?_

Three others were waiting for them: A rough-and-tumble guy in a beanie who looked simultaneously amused and annoyed, a beautiful Latina woman sporting a leg-brace, bright red bomber jacket and major RBF, and Thelonius Jaha, Wells’s father. 

“This is Nathan Miller, Raven Reyes, and Thelonious Jaha,” Indra pointed at each respectively. Without further preamble, she turned on a monitor showing a video feed of the warehouse time-stamped for yesterday. The camera was focused on a large, white… orb? Clarke didn’t know a better name for it. She’d never seen anything like it. 

Suddenly, a man entered the frame on-screen. He couldn’t have been much older than Clarke, tall and broad — tanned skin and long, slicked-back brown hair. He screamed ex-military in his movements. After pistol-whipping two security guards, he forced an older man with black hair and a graying beard into the orb. He looked straight into the camera, smirking a bit, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Moments later, the white orb disappears from the screen. 

Clarke blinked. 

“I’m sorry, did that just…” the ma’am guy, John, pointed to the screen, stunned. 

“Ever heard of a closed, time-like curve?” Thelonius budded in. Both Clarke and Murphy stayed silent. He picks up a piece of paper from one of the desks, holding it up flat. “Say this is the fabric of space-time. Now, if you could create a powerful enough gravitational field, you could actually bend it back on itself to create a loop of sorts.” He demonstrated by putting pressure downward in the middle of the paper and curled the ends, causing it to roll into a burrito shape. “You could use that loop to cross over into an earlier point.” 

“An earlier point… in time, you mean?” Clarke asks, eyes wide. 

“What Mr. Jaha means is that he managed to create a time machine, but neglected to tell the U.S. government about it,” Indra interrupts, shooting Thelonius a contemptuous look. 

“You expect us to believe you created a time machine? Okay, where are the cameras? We’re getting punked right now, right?” John looked around as if expecting someone to pop out from the shadows. 

“Sit down, dipshit. Just because you aren’t smart enough to understand it, doesn’t mean it’s not possible,” RBF barked. Clarke couldn’t help but snort at that, and the other woman gave her a small smile. 

“Reyes,” Thelonius warned. “Look, I know that it’s not within the realm of mainstream science and technology. But we’ve managed to create something spectacular here.” 

“But why do you need us?” Clarke asked, still confused as to why they invited a history professor to this party. 

Indra clicked through to a profile on the man who disappeared with the time machine. “Bellamy Blake. Ex-NSA operative who went rogue over a year ago after murdering his sister. He’s been off the grid, untraceable, ever since until he showed up here. We have no idea what he wants or what his plans are.” 

The guy in the beanie spins in his chair, typing on his keyboard. “The Mothership runs on its own data loop, meant to help prevent external hacking. Its CPU is connected to the Lifeboat, our backup ship, but we have limited knowledge of its movements. All we can see is to what time in history it’s jumped.” 

**May 5, 1937** , pulled up on the screen. 

“Why would this guy jump to the day before the Hindenberg?” Clarke blurted out without thinking. Heads turned to look at her in astonishment. 

“You asked why we recruited you for this project, Miss Griffin. That’s why,” Indra pointed out. “We need a group of you to apprehend Blake before he can change history irreparably.” 

“Wait, why not just travel back to 10 minutes before he steals the time machine and...?” John made a popping sound, firing a finger gun. 

“You can’t go back into your own timeline where there’s a possibility of running into yourself,” Miller explained. “Your mind has its own biometric code, a signal it sends that places you into a specific point in space-time. If your code comes near itself, there could be catastrophic repercussions for both your past and present selves.” 

John still looked a bit lost, nodding slowly, but he didn’t argue further. 

“The LifeBoat, the original prototype of the time machine, is operational. John, Clarke, and Miller, you will take it back to May 5, 1937, find Blake, and stop him,” Indra said. 

“Wait, I’m piloting?” Miller asked, horrified. “But Reyes is the better pilot.” 

“You’re damn right I am.” 

“Maybe so, but the LifeBoat only fits three people, and this isn’t a stay in the car mission,” Indra said, giving a pointed look to Raven’s brace. Raven’s face fell, and Clarke’s heart went out to her. The woman seemed more than capable of taking care of herself. Why should a leg brace prevent her from going? “I’m sorry, but we can’t risk it.” 

“Risk it? Indra, you realize I’m both black _and_ gay, right? There are exactly zero points in American history that are going to be a fun time for me. If my ass can go, so can Raven’s.” 

“I’m not arguing with you about it. You are the three going, end of discussion. Clarke is a historian with medical experience from her pre-med days. John is ex-Delta Force. Miller is ex-Air Force with experience piloting a time machine. Let’s get you guys changed, and get going. The longer we wait, the more time we give Blake to fuck up history as we know it.” 

They get changed into period-appropriate clothes. It’s not a precise match in terms of fabrics, but they should be fine. Murphy and Miller outfit themselves with time-appropriate guns. Indra gives them some money in case of emergencies. Within minutes, they’re ready to go. 

“The most important thing to remember is that you don’t exist in this timeline,” Raven emphasized, briefing them all before they leave. “Make sure your faces aren’t in any photos or videos taken. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t have to. Try your hardest to change absolutely nothing about history. The smallest change that far in the past could have detrimental effects on the current timeline. 

They were steered toward the steps that lead into the LifeBoat, but Clarke managed to duck under the arms of a guard. 

“Thelonious! Check on Wells and my mom, okay? Promise!” 

“I’ve got them, Clarke. You’ll be back in less than a minute in our time,” he assured. That calmed her down a little, and she took a deep breath. This was going to be fine. It was a job, and she would handle it like anything else. 

She climbed into the time machine right after John, and it was a… tight fit. Miller was strapped into his seat at the front of the LifeBoat with the controls. The other two seats were facing each other, a tighter fit than in economy class on American Airlines. They both leaned forward to sit down, and their heads bumped. 

“Dammit,” he muttered at the same time she gasped, “Fuck.” 

Chuckling, he grabbed onto her shoulders and lowered her down at the same time as him to avoid another collision. Within seconds he was buckled in, but Clarke was having some difficulties getting the inserts to cooperate over the layers of her 1930s wardrobe. 

“Let me, ma’am,” he said, unbuckling himself to lean forward just slightly and secure her fasteners into place. His hands grazed hers, and she felt the tension in the small space electrify. That stupid half-smirk was back as he relaxed back into his own seat, rebuckled. 

“John, have you been drinking?” she asked, eyes wide. She could smell just a hint of whiskey on his breath. 

“Wasn’t exactly expecting to be working tonight. And stop calling me John, it’s Murphy.”

“Then stop calling me ma’am. It’s Clarke,” she retorted. The half-smirk turned into an amused grin, and she looked away with a small smile of her own. Yeah, definitely her type to a T. 

“Initiating launch sequence for the evening of May 5, 1937,” Miller announced, switching flips and inputting coordinates on the dashboard. 

“Wait, input for 1700 hours local time on May 6, 1937,” Clarke corrected. “The Hindenberg explosion happens at around 1900 hours, and the less time we’re there the fewer opportunities we have to screw it up.” 

Miller nodded, changing the time on the monitor. 

“Alright, shit’s about to get bumpy. Hold on tight.” He pulled a small lever next to his seat, and suddenly Clarke felt like she were in a tilt-a-whirl while hungover. Less than a minute later, the sensation stopped suddenly in a crash. Clarke was thrown against her seat belt hard. 

They all sat there for a minute, trying to catch their breath and reorient themselves. 

“Please tell me that it won’t be like that on the way back,” Murphy commented, looking a concerning shade of pale. 

“Fine, I won’t,” Miller grumbled, getting out of his seat and bracing himself against the wall of the ship. “Fuck, I hate this old bastard.” 

“Maybe don’t insult the machinery that’s supposed to get us back home?” Clarke suggested, leaning back against the headrest, hands above her head as she took deep breaths. 

“Don’t tell me you believe in superstition,” Murphy teased. 

“I didn’t believe in time travel until about twenty minutes ago, so let’s not test our luck here,” she shot back. Both men just chuckled, and Murphy raised his hands in surrender. 

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” 

Clarke didn’t dignify that with a response, instead trying to unbuckle herself. Thankfully, they were easier coming off than on. 

They landed about two miles away from the airfield, wanting to keep the LifeBoat out of sight. The walk there was long and boring, and the three didn’t talk much. Miller seemed like the last place he wanted to be was on this mission — which, valid. And Murphy just didn’t seem like the chatty type. 

So that left Clarke to walk in silence next to them, cursing the patriarchy for forcing women into unrealistic beauty standards that included wearing uncomfortable shoes with heels. 

The airfield was bustling with activity once they got there, and Clarke was in awe. Old Ford cars lined the outskirts of the field, journalists with vintage Kodaks had lenses trained on the skies, and you could just make out the massive blimp headed toward them. 

“Hey, Earth to Clarke,” Murphy waved a hand in front of Clarke’s face. “Fangirl later. We’ve got to find Blake before he-” 

“Before he what? Blows up the Hindenburg? Why travel back in time just to make a bad day worse?” Miller interrupted. He had a point. Clarke just couldn’t piece together what Blake’s angle could be. 

“Okay, so today is an overcast day with intermittent storms. Because of that, the Hindenburg will have to make a series of turns before throwing down the mooring ropes. The turn causes static electricity to build, and the wet ropes ground the blimp. All it takes is a spark before…” 

“Boom,” Murphy finished for her. “Okay, let’s fan out. See if we can find this guy.” 

They wandered through the crowds, Clarke trying hard to focus on the task at hand. She was in the midst of history. The Hindenburg! 

“You’re in history nerd heaven right now, aren’t you?” Murphy’s voice came up behind her, smirk firmly in place. Clarke just elbowed him. 

“We are literal time travelers right now, and you’re telling me you don’t find that the slightest bit exciting?” She quirked an eyebrow, side-eyeing him as they walk through the crowds. 

“I’m here to track down a terrorist. Same job, different setting,” he shrugged. She couldn’t help but shake her head at him. Clarke didn’t care how good his poker face was… he couldn’t tell her that he wasn’t freaking out inside, too. 

They continued looking, asking bystanders if they’d seen someone matching Blake’s description. Everyone seemed distracted by the sight of the Hindenberg maneuvering in the sky above them. To be fair, so was Clarke. 

As the ropes dropped, she couldn’t help but stop to watch. 

That is, until Murphy suddenly grabs her around the waist, pulling her to him before his mouth connects with hers. She’s surprised, both from the action itself and by how soft his lips are. She would have expected him to kiss how he acted — hard edges and biting remarks. 

For a split second, she found herself kissing him back. But then he pulled back to look over his shoulder. She peered around him, confused, only to see a photographer reloading a camera. 

“No faces in photos, remember?” he smirked, voice a little more gravely than it was just moments before. 

“And the logical response was to kiss me?” she asked, eyebrows raised in a challenge. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, ma’am. Just doing my job.” He had the audacity to wink at her before taking a step back. Clarke tried not to smile, but the corners of her mouth turned up anyway as she shook her head at him. 

“Stop calling me ma’am.” His eyes held a challenge of their own as he met her gaze. She breaks first, attention darting back to the incoming Hindenburg. Any second now, there should be an explosion. 

“We don’t have much time, and we do not want to be under this thing when it blows. Let’s find Miller and reassess. Maybe Blake’s not here after all?” She welcomed the opportunity for a change in conversation. 

They scrambled to find Miller and distance themselves from the future wreckage. But when the three of them make it a safe distance away, they turn to see the Hindenburg is almost through its descent. Clarke turned to Murphy wide-eyed.

“That’s not supposed to happen.” 

The first time around, the Hindenburg didn’t land at all. It caught fire before it made it halfway to the ground. 

“The ropes,” Miller piped up. “They weren’t trailing the ground. Dry ropes mean no kaboom.” 

So Blake was trying to… save the Hindenburg? 

“That means he must be part of the ground crew,” Murphy started to storm off back toward the crowd, gun pulled out, but Clarke caught his arm. 

“Wait. This doesn’t make any sense. Why would a terrorist want to go back in time to save the Hindenburg from catching fire? Who is he trying to save on board?” Her mind was spinning with the possibilities. 

Thirteen passengers and 22 crewmen died in the original explosion, but no one notable in history. Then again, they couldn’t predict who from those aboard would have become instrumental throughout time… but how could Blake, either? Unless...

“Share what’s going on in that mind of yours, Clarke,” Murphy said, ducking down a little to try and meet her eyes. 

“No one notable flew the inaugural flight from Germany to the U.S. But think about who was on the return trip back to watch the King’s coronation — John D. Rockefeller Jr., Omar Bradley, Igor Sikorsky, to name a few.” She looked at her companions expectantly, but they both still looked confused. 

“Rockefeller helps found the UN, Bradley is instrumental in planning D-Day, Igor Sikorsky invents the helicopter… Blake doesn't want to save the Hindenburg, he wants to blow it up on the way back.” 

What she said finally clicks, and they both turn to the scene in front of them horrified. 

“You said Blake is part of the ground crew? We’ve got to stop him before they let him get a bomb on the passenger car.” 

That time, they all three split up to race through the crowds. At least they had some direction — he was part of the ground crew. 

“I’m looking for a man with the ground crew. He’s tall, late 20s, long dark brown hair gelled back?” Clarke asked one man who was handling ropes. 

“No, lady. Do I look like I’m in charge to you?” he grumbled. Well, that was rude. 

She kept searching the crowd, getting closer and closer to the now-moored Hindenburg. It was starting to deboard, and they were running out of time. 

The sky was darker, and rain was coming down steadily now. Clarke wasn’t happy about being soaked, but at least the weather would make the deboarding and reboarding process take longer. 

Clarke broke through the edge of the crowd, pushing through the masses of people craning to get a better view of the majestic aircraft in front of them. But that’s when she sees him. 

She looked around for Miller or Murphy with no avail. Dammit, she shouldn’t have rejected Indra’s offer to take a gun of her own on this mission. 

“Bellamy Blake!” she called across the grass, hoping that her voice would carry past the man she was apprehending to one of her partners. Blake’s head did turn at the sound, surprised eyes locking with hers. 

She expected him to run. Isn’t that what most people would do upon being caught? But instead, he turned to face her, closing part of the distance. They stood less than 10 feet apart. 

“Clarke, you shouldn’t be here,” he said, her name a low rumble coming from his mouth. He looked different than in the video and photos, the rain washing away the gel and making his hair curl at the ends. It made him look younger, more dangerous somehow. 

She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with ice. 

“How the hell do you know my name?”


	3. You know me

**New Jersey, USA, May 1937**

He knew he should’ve run, that she wasn’t there to help him. But seeing her again… Bellamy couldn’t make himself move. 

She shouldn’t be here. He specifically left her out of it this time around, coming here on his own. Using the journal as a guide. Of course, he should have known Second Dawn would find a way to involve her regardless, that they’d be connected regardless. 

Her hair was longer, though still the same wavy golden blonde, and she looked younger than he remembered from that bar a year ago.  _ She is younger, _ he reminded himself. The woman he met in the bar that night was a different Clarke, and the person in front of him now had no idea what her future held. 

“How the hell do you know my name?” she demanded, and he couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips. Yes, she was different, but the ferocity he saw in her eyes a year ago was exactly the same, possibly even amplified now. 

His first instinct was to reach out, to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He’d read the journal what seemed like a million times over the past year, memorizing every detail and comparing it to the force of nature that had walked up to him in that bar. 

“I know this will sound crazy,” he said, mirroring the words she said to him when they first met, “but I know you, Clarke.” 

“You know me.” Her eyes narrowed, arms crossing her chest in defiance. 

“Better than you know yourself, at this point. And one day, you’ll know me just as well.” 

“I already know everything I need to about you. You’re a psychopath intent on burning everything to the ground,” she bit out, anger seeping into her voice. He’d often wondered why she approached him while he was drunk off his ass, but he was starting to see the appeal of a more compliant conversationalist. 

“That all depends on your point of view. I know that it’s hard to believe, but I’m doing this for a better future. For you.” 

“What the hell are you talking about, for me? You don’t actually know me!” 

“Clarke Griffin. Associate professor at Arkadia University. Your mother is Abby Griffin, one of the most well-known surgeons in the country—” he started slowly, but Clarke cut him off. 

“So you read some file on me, that doesn’t mean you know anything about who I am…” 

“You feel guilty for choosing history and art instead of following in her footsteps because you think maybe you could’ve helped save her,” he continued, raising his eyebrows at her. At that, she quieted, looking down. There, maybe he was getting somewhere. 

“You feel discontent teaching, even though you love the subject matter, and you don’t know why. But I do — it’s because you’re meant to be so much more than a professor teaching kids about history. You’re meant to be part of history.” 

“Why would I believe anything from someone who killed his own sister?” Her words stung, though it wasn’t the first time he’d heard them. But something about the way they sounded coming from her, this woman who was simultaneously a stranger and the one person he’d come to depend on over the past year. 

He took a step toward her. “You don’t know what I’ve done.” 

If his nearness or words intimidated her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she takes another step closer herself. “I know a murderer when I see one,” she said, her voice cold as ice. Bellamy clenches his jaw, reminding himself again that she doesn’t know him yet. 

“Who we are and what we have to be to survive are two very different things.” 

“That’s such bullshit,” she all but spit out at him. 

He pulled out her journal from his pocket, opening it to a page toward the end and the quote highlighted there. Her eyes widened as she took it in. 

“That’s my handwriting, but… I didn’t write that.” Her blue eyes were lost, and he could see the gears in her head turning. 

“But you will.” 

She snatched the journal out of his hands, thumbing through the well-worn pages. Her hand stopped on the same page he did that first night — the sketch of him. 

“I don’t...I don’t understand,” her voice was shakier now, and she looked up at him with glassy eyes. 

Part of him hated himself for being the one who would set her entire world on fire, again. She’d told him — no, begged him — not to chase after O’s killers, after her. And he’d thought about just leaving everything behind, doing what she told him to do. 

But then he read the rest of the journal, and he just couldn’t let it go. 

Arrogantly, he’d thought he could change things this time around. Maybe if he didn’t involve her, didn’t come to see her lecture, didn’t convince her to join his crusade… maybe he could save her from the pain of losing him in the end. 

_ We pretended like history was malleable, stupidly believing we could change the fabric of the universe. And maybe it is, but I know now there are some things written in the stars. I’m praying this isn’t one of them.  _

Clarke had written that in her last entry, after they’d completed their mission at the cost of his life. It seemed like she was right. Apparently, her world would end up burning whether he was the one to light the match or not. At least this way he could be there to help pick up the pieces. 

“Just ask them why they  _ really  _ chose you for this mission. Ask them about Second Dawn, about your father,” he told her at last, taking back the journal from her trembling hands. 

“My father…” she trailed off, eyes drawn together in confusion. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man that matched the sketches of Murphy from the journal. When he drew his gun, he pulled Clarke behind him on instinct. 

“Let her go, Blake,” Murphy called. 

“No! Don’t shoot!” Clarke’s voice rang out. But it was too late. 

Bellamy dove to the ground, pulling Clarke with him. The bullet missed, instead hitting the Hindenburg behind them. Almost immediately, a fire erupted from the hole and started spreading. 

In seconds, it had eaten through half of the blimp on its way to the passenger car. 

“Dammit Murphy I said don’t shoot!” Clarke scolded, pulling herself up. “We’ve gotta go, now!” 

The three of them run like hell away from the flames now engulfing the Hindenburg. Dammit, that wasn’t the plan. He’d wanted to sneak onboard and quietly assassinate just Rockafeller, one of the men who helped Bill Cadogan found Second Dawn. He didn’t want more unnecessary deaths on his conscience. 

“Why did a stray bullet cause that?” Murphy huffed at her as they ran. 

“Because you’re an idiot who just fired a bullet into a balloon filled with metal and hydrogen gas,” Clarke yelled at him. “All it would take is one spark for the whole thing to blow.” 

Wreckage was falling around them, threatening their backsides as smoke filled the air and flames cast an orange hue on everything around them. 

Clarke kept stopping to help everyone she passed. Getting people to their feet, steering them in the right direction, checking for wounds. 

“We don’t have time for you to be a hero, let’s go!” Murphy all but dragged her behind him. Bellamy knew from the journal and he and Murphy didn’t exactly get along, but he didn’t disagree with him now. 

“I’m not leaving these people!” she snapped back at him as she picked up a little girl. 

The last thing Bellamy wanted to do was leave her behind, but it was now or never to escape. The rain would prevent the fire from getting out of hand, and they were far enough from the crash now. Murphy was distracted by Clarke, and Bellamy didn’t think he was the kind of man to miss his target twice. 

With one last look back at her golden hair flying in the wind, he disappeared into the edge of the crowd gathered at the back of the airfield. Murphy would keep her safe. As much as he already hated the guy, he knew he could count on him to protect her. 

Bellamy made his way back to the Mothership, where Kane was waiting inside. One look at his soot-covered face and mess of curls, and the older man laughed.

“I take it that means you owe me a beer.” 

“It’s not funny,” he huffed out, taking his seat at the front next to Kane. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. Now there’s no way to keep her from being involved.” 

“I told you when we started this that they would find a way to get her involved, no matter what you did to prevent it. What is it that she said in the journal?  _ Some things are written in the stars. _ ” 

They say the line in unison. 

Bellamy raked his hands through his hair. 

“This is my fight, not hers.” 

“That’s not true, and you know it. Clarke deserves to know about her family, and she deserves to decide for herself whether or not she pursues the same path as she took in that journal.” 

He took in Kane’s words, knowing he was right. Kane had caught Bellamy poking around at Jaha Industries near the beginning of his research, and he had volunteered to help. He’d been working under Thelonious for years now, and he knew exactly what was going on at Jaha Industries. 

The two of them had planned for months now about how they could take down the Second Dawn — faking a break-in to steal the MotherShip, the points in history that were best to unravel its founding to begin with, how to avoid Clarke getting hurt in the process. 

Clarke being on the opposite team this time was… a hiccup. 

“How am I supposed to do this if she’s fighting against me instead of with me?” 

Kane reached over to clap a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder. “She put her faith in you when she handed you that journal. Maybe put a little faith in her that she’ll come around.” 

Bellamy took a deep breath, pulling out the journal. He turned it to one of the sketches she’d done of him, his favorite entry scribbled across the opposite page. 

_ Some days, I could strangle you. You’re just so damn stubborn, and unwilling to compromise any time my safety is at risk. It makes me want to kiss you and slap you all in the same breath.  _

_ The best course of action is to send me in. He’s my father — he wouldn’t hurt me. It’s the logical decision, the one with the best chance at success. But of course you won’t hear any of it. I love you for looking out for me, but this is about more than just us, Bell.  _

_ We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. I didn’t like you at first, that’s no secret. But even then, every stupid thing you did was to get your sister back. Everyone else didn’t always see it that way, but I did. You’ve got such a big heart, Bellamy. People follow you, you inspire them, because of it. But the only way we’re going to survive this is if you use your head, too.  _

_ -Jan. 14, 2023  _

He closed his eyes as Kane readied the ship to go. This was Clarke, his Clarke. They were better together, the head and the heart. He’d been prepared to go this alone, but maybe Kane was right that he didn’t have to. 

“I got you for that,” he whispers to himself as they hurtle back through time to the present. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Make sure to check out the other fics for the challenge, and vote for your favorites on the  Chopped Challenge Tumblr. 
> 
> \--
> 
> While the first three chapters are part of the fic challenge, I will be continuing the story into a full-on slow burn fic (with a better ending than the actual show, I promise). Kudos, comments, and feedback are always appreciated!


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